But alternating with the days of balmy stillness came the rains--days and days when the whole face of nature was like a vast mop, soaked to fullness, dripping and cold. And when it rained it did nothing but rain. It had become almost an icy drizzle on the twentieth and the soldiers in the trenches, those bivouacking in the open and the homeless refugees who had fled before the German advance, were correspondingly miserable. It was, as in the winter months, a time for greatcoats, dry footwear, if such were possible, and the making of fires wherever fuel was to be had. Don Richards was ready with every handy means to meet the intolerable weather conditions, and his new helper, Washington White, the blackest darky and one of the best natured that ever exposed a wide row of ivories. Washington fairly hugged himself because luck had thrown him in with a lad who had camped and roughed it through wild country and knew nearly every trick of out-of-door life, from vacation experiences with his Boy Scout troop, and from camping out with the Brighton biology class. “Wha--wha--what we gwine tuh du now, Mist’ Donal’? Ain’t a-gwine tuh stay yer; is we? In all dis slop o’ mud?” “Just that!” Don replied. “No more mud here than everywhere else. I guess the whole world is one big puddle by the way things look, except perhaps the Desert of Sahara or the American bad lands. This is as good a spot to put up in for the night as anywhere that I know of--in this part of the earth, anyhow.” “But wha’s de matter wif gwine on back tuh de hospital?” “No place there. You know they’ve asked us to give up our quarters for a while to some new nurses just come over, and we’ve got to be polite to the ladies. The orders have been all along that if we were empty and night shut down on us on the road, to bunk anywhere and go on in the morning, with that much time gained. Every minute counts these days. Get the matches under the seat there, will you? And there’s a bottle of coal-oil wrapped in a rag by the tool box. Reach down that camp hatchet.” “But, lawsee, Mist’ Donal’, we’d be somewhar’s en’ a roof en’ have lights en’ a wahm meal---” “Say, forget it! Haven’t we got the roof of the car? And haven’t we got a light,” pointing to the one lighted lamp of the car, “and as for a warm meal--oh, boy! I’ll make you think you’re at the Waldorf-Astoria when I get to frying this good old American bacon and these French eggs. You ought to be doing it, really, but the next time’ll be your turn. Now then, chase around for some wood!” “B-r-r-r! Dis road’s awful dahk en’ de wood’ll be all wet’s a wet hen, en’ say, Mist’ Donal’, wid all dem sojers kickin’ de bucket back yondah en’ off dere in dem trenches en’ de amberlances chasin’ back en’ fo’th wid deaders--say, lawsee, Ah’s plum scairt ’bout projectin’ roun’ dis--”